I'll Be Looking at the Moon
by beautyofsorrow
Summary: For twenty-four years, he's always been there for her - father, brother, mentor, friend. Now he isn't, and she doesn't know how to let herself grieve.
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor claim to own any of the following characters, places, or events.

** Author's Note: **Set Earth 2394, approximately 3 months after _Voyager_'s return to the Alpha Quadrant as established in Endgame's alternate timeline. Primarily a B'Elanna/Chakotay friendship piece, but P/T is naturally involved. This is just the prologue; more to come.**  
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><p><span>I'll Be Looking at the Moon<span>_  
><em>by Dax's10thHost

"This is crazy! You can't just skip his funeral!"

She swung around, fists clenched and eyes glittering. "Oh, so now it's some Starfleet _requirement_ that I attend a crewmate's funeral?"

"He was more than your crewmate, B'Elanna."

"How would you know?" she choked and wrenched around for the door, slamming her fist into it when it didn't open fast enough.

"You need to go."

She halted, shoulders tight, knuckles white against the doorframe. "Why? To impress the brass? Or maybe just to put on a good show for the newsvids." She turned, her bitterness cutting into him like a knife. But not in a way that made him want to lash out.

He cupped her cheek and got her to look at him.

"No. For you."

Her shoulders slumped as she stepped into him. He held her like he had Miral when she was a newborn, cheek pressed to her hair and hand cradling her head to his chest. If only she would trust him like Miral had… "I know it hurts, Bee."

"No. No, Tom, you don't. You can't—possibly—" Her voice hitched, and he pulled her closer.

"Okay, you're right. I don't understand. I'd have to lose Harry to understand. But…I've lost people, too. People I loved." _I got three of them killed_, he almost added, but didn't. This wasn't about him. Besides, he'd put that to rest long ago, about as well as anyone could lay something like that aside.

She sighed, and her breath was warm against his chest. He wished she'd let go, stop being so angry at the hurt inside her. Or let the anger out. He'd gladly take a beating, if that's what it took. _I'll have to watch her a while, keep her away from the holosuites._ At least until she cried.

"I'm sorry. I just…can't—"

"Don't apologize. You knew him for twenty-four years. It's hard."

"I can't do it, Tom."

He set her back so he could see her eyes. So he could know her. "Yes. Yes, you can. We all can. That's why you need to go—to be there for us, so we can be there for you."

"It won't be the same."

"No. It won't."

"We're not a family anymore. We're all broken and…gone."

"B'Elanna—B'Elanna, listen to me. We're not all gone. We're here. Broken, yes. Hurting, yes. But we're not gone, not dead. We're here for each other. We'll get through this."

She bit her lip. _Let it out, just let it out! _

"I just…I want to go back. It was easier. It was home." Her voice was flat, eyes dull.

_Bee, don't do this to me. Not again. Please don't shut yourself off. Not when you need us most. _

She stepped into him once more, this time tilting her head to catch his lips. Her touch was desperate, fiery, and she clutched his shirt as if she were drowning in the oceans of Monea. When at last she came up for air, Tom could feel the emptiness echoing inside her.

She looked at him, brown eyes heavier than he'd ever seen them, even when she'd been a pregnant stranger in a bar, brain manipulated to bring all her insecurities to the surface. He looked at those eyes, and knew what she would say.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I just can't."

And then she left. 


	2. Chapter 1

"What do you mean she's not going?" The padd she'd been studying clattered to the table as Miral jumped to her feet.

Tom winced. "I mean she's not going."

"What, she doesn't feel good enough?" Miral hugged her arms to her chest. "Right. Like I've never heard that before."

"Hey, that's enough! I won't have you talking about your mother that way." Tom softened his voice. "She knew Chakotay almost twenty-five years."

Miral snapped her eyes to his. "That's right—she did. So why's she ditching him now?"

"That's exactly my question," he sighed.

"So why don't you ask her?"

"Because I already know the answer."

"She can't not go."

"She can and she will. That's what she wants, and I won't have you giving her grief over it."

Miral threw up her hands and spun around. "See Dad, that's exactly her problem—she can't face anything! She has to run and hide from it."

How could someone be so right and so wrong at the same time?

Tom opened his mouth to say words he didn't have, but his daughter wasn't done. "Does she think she's the only one hurting here? We _all_ knew Chakotay. He was my uncle! We were together all the time—at meals, when he taught me to box, when we read together every Thursday night." She whirled to face him, blue eyes blazing. "I _loved_ him, Dad. He was my _family_." Her voice cracked on _family_, and she clamped her mouth shut.

"Hey," Tom rounded the kitchen table, tipping her chin with one hand and smoothing her hair back with the other. "You don't have to prove yourself, Mir. You're hurting. We all are."

Miral sniffed and hunched her shoulders. "Even Mom?"

"Especially Mom."

"More than…I guess so."

"Yeah." Tom's voice hung heavy with his knowledge. For a moment, they were silent.

"No one loved him more, huh?"

"Probably not. Except for Seven."

"Seven of Nine? His wife?"

Tom nodded. "You weren't even three when she died; too young to remember her."

"Mom said he never got over it."

_When did she say that?_ "No, I guess he didn't. And I don't blame him."

"But Mom does."

"Yes…and no. It's complicated."

Miral rolled her eyes. "Everything with Mom's complicated."

"That's one of many reasons why I love her."

Miral cast him a glance, lopsided smile tugging her lips. Had her eyes been brown, Tom could've sworn he was looking at a sixteen-year-old B'Elanna. _I would've liked to see Bee with her hair long…_

Miral's smile faded, Paris blues turning serious once more. "I still think she should go."

"Yeah. Yeah, me too."

They all did.

* * *

><p>"You ready to go?" Tom fastened the last of his lieutenant commander's pips to his dress uniform and rounded the corner to Miral's room.<p>

Miral looked up from her seat on the bed. "This okay, Dad?" She stood and pirouetted, showing off her black tunic, leggings, and ballet flats. Her coffee-colored hair hung down her back in a simple braid, probably French, but he couldn't be sure. Grieving or not, she was beautiful.

Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat. When had she gotten so old? "Looks perfect, _Kuvah'magh_. Arachnia would be jealous."

Miral turned shining blue eyes on him, and a smile tipped her lips at the pet name. "Thanks, Dad."

"I'm almost ready. Wait for me at the door." Tom continued down the hall, tugging at his cuffs. Even with all the formal receptions, hearings, and galas since _Voyager_'s return three months ago, he still wasn't used to the starched fabric and too-short sleeves.

The door to their bedroom was open, an echo of his prison days that B'Elanna understood would never leave him. He paused at the threshold, watching her work at the desk console.

She looked up. "I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you're here to ask."

"Actually, I came for a kiss goodbye," he countered softly, moving to her side. "Think you could manage that?"

Her eyes flickered, and he thought maybe he'd gotten through to her. But she ducked her head and addressed the screen instead. "You should go; you're going to be late."

Tom studied her for a moment more before brushing his lips across her cheek. "I love you," he whispered.

Miral turned hopeful eyes on him as he joined her, but they dimmed when he shook his head. "I thought maybe she'd change her mind."

"She has. She's just afraid to admit it," he said, stepping out the door.

Miral's brow wrinkled, but she stayed silent.

They left the apartment and headed for the cemetery on foot. The sky was clear and blue, the sun warm, but not so hot that it cooked them in their funeral attire. As they neared the grounds, the trickle of people swelled to a river. Tom's eyes narrowed as he picked out numerous captains, admirals, and Academy professors arrayed in Starfleet's best. Bitterness coated his tongue as he took in the reporters and holocam crews swarming around the brass like Ferengi around gold-pressed latinum.

Couldn't anyone respect the dead anymore? Was it all a big show for the gossip columnists, a way to keep the public's interest until the next Wolf 359 came along and shook things up? He doubted more than a handful of the attendees had truly known Chakotay.

Tom stopped when he realized Miral was no longer beside him. He turned and saw her standing a few paces back, arms hugging her middle in a manner that screamed B'Elanna.

"Mir? You okay?"

She turned to him, and he saw the tears glittering in her eyes like stage lights turned too bright. "Dad…"

She fell into his arms like she had when she'd crashed the _Flyer_ sim in the holodeck six years ago, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. "Dad…I miss him. I miss him so much."

"Ah, Mir…" He held her, heedless of the tears staining his jacket, and realized he was angry. Angry at the press for prodding fresh wounds, angry at B'Elanna for locking herself away, angry at Seven for volunteering for the survey mission, angry at Janeway for letting her go… But most of all, he was angry at Chakotay for giving up on life two weeks before B'Elanna's birthday.

* * *

><p>The graveside service wasn't set to begin until 1330, but the cameras were already whirring, with dozens of networks feeding into the local channels. It seemed that others' suffering never lost its appeal.<p>

Tom steered Miral through the masses, arm around her shoulder, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. He'd just spotted Ayala with his wife and sons when someone called his name.

"Commander Paris, a moment of your time, please." Before he thought better of it, he turned and saw a Bolian reporter motioning to her cameraman. "Commander," she began again, hustling after him, "what are your thoughts—"

"No comment," Tom interrupted.

"Commander Paris, your wife was very close with the deceased—"

"Ignore her," he whispered to Miral, and nodded toward Ayala.

"—could you explain to us why she's not here today?"

"I told you, I have no comment." Stupid reporters.

"Surely there's a reason for her absence. Is it true that Commander Torres' friendship with the deceased tied back to her Maquis days?"

Tom shouldered his way through a cluster of startled brass, Miral right behind him. But another camera crew, this one from the FNN, was waiting for them.

"Commander Paris! Is it true that your wife was romantically involved with Commander Chakotay during her year with the Maquis and perhaps even beyond?"

Before Tom could react, Miral thrust herself at the cameras. "_bIjatlh 'e' yImev_!" she exploded, eyes fiery. "You shut up about my mother, you hear me? Chakotay was like a father to her, and now she can't even attend his funeral because of you and your stupid questions!"

"That's enough, Miral," Tom murmured, his hand on her arm. But it was all he could do to keep the Klingon invectives from spilling past his own lips. He was suddenly glad B'Elanna hadn't come with them.

Miral's face was a thundercloud, fists clenched at her sides and feet storming ahead to the safe haven of Mike Ayala's sealed lips and burly form. Tom pressed through the mass of holocams and shouted questions, eyes never leaving his daughter's back.

He reached the edge of the Voyager survivors a few seconds later. Harry's grim expression greeted him. "Did that really just happen?"

"Just when I think they can't get any worse…"

* * *

><p>B'Elanna shut the newsfeeds off with a stab, eyes closed against the sickening emptiness. But it was no use.<p>

It was inside her. For good.


	3. Interlude

For the next three days, it seemed as if every news station, whether local, planetary, or beyond, could run nothing but Chakotay's funeral. Vids of it were everywhere, showing in every bistro, classroom, workplace, and street corner. Unlike Wolf 359 or the Dominion War, this tragedy had no lasting effect on the public; it was merely a diversion, a way to involve one's emotions without commitment. In short, it was the perfect way to hook viewers.

The Voyagers certainly didn't feel that way.

While all the networks ran specials on the brass turnout, flashing such names as Nechayev, Picard, Sisko, and dozens of others, most zeroed in on _Voyager_ and her remaining 121 members. After all, they were the only ones with true grief lining their features.

Shots of ex-Maquis members—Ayala, Carlson, Darby, Chell, and others—supplemented stories that ranged from hate pieces on the scot-free terrorists to heartfelt testimonies that sickened all subjects unlucky enough to watch them. Of special interest was Sveta, Chakotay's aging recruiter, who'd been granted temporary parole in order to attend the funeral. Reporters fawned over the legal strings pulled and the generosity of those in power. They did not, however, draw notice to the handcuffs around Sveta's wrists.

Commander Tuvok's stoic features were a favorite, as well, if only because the advanced stages of his illness caused pronounced muscle spasms in his legs and arms. No reporter lost the opportunity to remind his viewers of the lengths to which Admiral Janeway had gone in order to clear Tuvok for attendance. It was a great effort, indeed, and all involved must have cared greatly for _Voyager_'s XO. In truth, Janeway was disgusted, both with the attention and herself for putting Tuvok through it. Even though she knew he couldn't see the newsvids, and probably didn't remember the funeral past his meditating fingers, she hated herself for thrusting him into the spotlight like that.

The FNN paid _special_ attention to the admiral's senior staff—what remained of it—and their presence at the service. Or their absence. Lieutenant Kim took a hit to his service record when he chose the funeral over reassignment, and the gossipmongers speculated he had set his promotion back by several months, if not years. However, his sacrifice did nothing to hurt his popularity with the masses.

Admiral Janeway received the expected attention, along with much probing and conclusion-jumping regarding her relations with the deceased. Had he been her first officer? lover? friend? something else…? No one saw fit to ask the admiral herself. Or maybe they'd tried, and those flashing gray eyes had scared them away.

Above all, though, the public's eye fastened on the Paris family, pinning them like butterflies to a display board. Grossly inflated reports of Tom's hostility towards Chakotay at the start of _Voyager_'s journey poured out, placing the deceased on a pedestal and the ex-convict flyboy in a shuttle with no warp core. One scenario even involved a ship-wide brawl and thirty days in the brig. These tales were of course accompanied by romanticized accounts of reconciliation over a certain half-Klingon and their common desire for her happiness.

While Tom and his rebel spirit fueled many imaginations, the greatest interest remained on the missing member and her apparent desire to hide behind her work rather than face the truth of her relationship to the deceased. The gleeful Betazoid reporter who had captured Miral's outburst suffered no compunction in running (and rerunning) the footage—unedited, obviously. Every word, right down to the "you and your stupid questions," was too juicy to pass up. And it only added fuel to everyone's burning question—just who was _Voyager_'s first officer to B'Elanna Torres?

There was no mention of Seven of Nine.


	4. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I know, I know, I'm dragging it out. It's the characters' fault - they're all clamoring for attention and shoving their way into my plans, so...It's coming. I promise. I thank you for your patience.

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><p>"Come on in," Tom called in response to the chiming announcer. He stepped back and assessed his handiwork. Everything was perfect. Now, if only B'Elanna would show up on time.<p>

The door _shushed_ open behind him, and he turned to encounter the tired, but warm, smile of Kathryn Janeway. "Capt—I mean, Admiral!"

Janeway chuckled and batted the formality aside. "Might as well surrender, Tom; we all know I'm stuck as the Captain to the Voyagers. And I can't say that I mind, either."

Tom smiled. "Kinda weird, huh? Being back, I mean. Even after three months…"

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," she admitted, nostalgia moving into her gray-blue eyes.

"Glad I'm not the only one who misses it."

They slipped into an easy silence, each lost in thoughts of _Voyager_ and the adventures left behind them in the Delta Quadrant. Janeway was the first to shake out of it, that familiar no-nonsense steel coming back to her spine as she straightened and looked around.

"It's a nice place you've got here, Tom. How's the adjustment gone?"

"About as well as it can, I suppose," he answered, setting wine glasses at each seat. "It took a couple months, but I think the deluge of visitors has finally stopped. Kinda hard, too, finding out who's left and who isn't."

Janeway flicked her gaze to his, compassion lining the wrinkles on her face. "I'm sorry about your father, Tom."

He sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, me too." Then he blinked and began straightening the napkins in their holders.

"Where's B'Elanna?"

"Still at the Academy, I'm sure. We barely see her anymore."

"The Academy? So she took the job there?"

"Yep."

"When?"

"The day after he died," Tom blurted, and looked up.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"At least it's work this time, and not the holodecks."

"I guess…I thought we were past this, but… She has access to them there."

"And you're worried about her."

"Always. Is that wrong? Shouldn't I trust her more? I mean, it's been eighteen years since then, and she hasn't relapsed."

"She hasn't had reason to, Tom. She had Chakotay then, and you and Miral and everyone else when she heard about her father. She wasn't in the thick of it, like she is here."

"Yeah. Yeah I guess so. It's just hard."

"It's hard for all of us."

"Stupid press isn't making it any easier."

"How's Miral doing?"

"Better. She took it really hard the first week, and then again at his funeral. Idiot reporters wouldn't leave her alone. I can't believe we're still like that. I mean, I thought we were past all this cruelty and fascination with others' suffering. Aren't we supposed to be enlightened?" His words burned like acid on his tongue, but he had to speak them. They were true. He had to put the truth out there.

"I can't answer that, Tom."

"Good. I'm glad. At least someone in this world is still big enough to admit they don't have all the answers."

He returned his attention to the table, straightening forks that weren't crooked and smoothing placemats that weren't creased. Neither spoke until Miral wandered into the room.

"Mom here yet?" she asked, tossing her messy braid over her shoulder. Then she saw Janeway.

"Captain! I'm sorry—I didn't know you were here."

"I was just about to ask your father for directions to your room." She smiled warmly and embraced Miral, who was now taller than she by several inches. "My, you've grown. Has it only been two months since I saw you?"

"Unless you count last week," Miral said, and smiled. It gave Tom hope.

"Your hair's longer. Are you going to keep it that way?"

"I'll probably cut it when I enter the Academy."

"Well, I'm sure it will be just as beautiful. Tom, you'll have to chase the boys away."

Miral ducked her head.

"If B'Elanna doesn't beat me to it," he laughed.

"Still keeping up with your Thursday night readings?" Janeway asked.

"Yes ma'am!" Miral replied proudly, though a shadow overhung her grin.

"And you still refuse to use padds, I suppose."

"Of course."

Janeway smiled lopsidedly, eyebrows twitching. "So what's the pick this month?"

"_To Kill a Mockingbird_."

"Ahh, good ole Harper Lee," Tom chimed in, closing his eyes appreciatively. "Pity she only wrote one book."

"Do you like it?"

"As irrelevant as that is, yes I do."

Janeway threw her head back and laughed. "Chakotay's taught you well."

Tom tensed, but Miral's smile slipped only a little.

"Yes, yes he has."

"So what do you think of Harper Lee's novel? Did you know that it was considered scandalous in its day?"

"I did. What I find…"

Tom smiled as his daughter fell into her element, arguing the finer points of Earth's ancient literature as if her companion were her peer and not one of the most celebrated officers in Starfleet history.

Yes, Chakotay had taught her well. Well indeed.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, as she left the Paris residence with a smile sliding from her lips and laughter fading into the coldly bright night air, Kathryn tried to recapture the warmth she'd felt just moments before. But always, thoughts of Chakotay came to claim her, troubling her mind with images of sunken eyes and silent lips, broken only by the presence of those he loved most…<p>

Even she couldn't get through to him after Seven.

Only B'Elanna, and Miral.

She felt like she'd failed him, those thirteen long years it took to get home. Failed and failed again, in every way she could and then some.

And now she'd failed B'Elanna, too, because she couldn't wish her happy birthday, couldn't smile and pretend everything was all right when it really wasn't, when things were crashing and shattering about them in a way that made them all wonder why they'd ever wanted to come home. What was so bad about the Delta Quadrant, anyway? What waited for them on Earth anymore? What good was the Federation? After twenty-three years…wasn't _Voyager_ enough?

_B'Elanna. Oh, B'Elanna, what have you done to yourself?_ Kathryn asked the sharp silent air. But she already knew the answer.

She'd never come home.


	5. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Second-to-last chapter; my muse has settled down. At last.

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><p>It was up to her now. It always had been.<p>

He found her in their bedroom, buried under padds and bent double over the console. Even though she was there, physically, in the room, he knew she really wasn't. Or maybe she was, and just running away as fast as she could. How long before she tripped?

"Harry's here."

"I'm busy."

"Well, so's he, but he still came."

"I have to grade these reports by tomorrow."

"The students will live."

"I don't want to see him."

"I'm beginning to think you don't want to see any of us anymore."

She looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"You're wasting my time."

"No, B'Elanna, I think you're wasting our time."

"What?"

Was he seeing things, or were her eyes brighter? "You heard me. We've promised to be here for you when you need us most, and we have been. But what do you do? You run and hide. Because B'Elanna Torres can't accept others' help. She has to do it on her own. Shut down, press on, forget he ever existed. That's how you do it, right? Doesn't matter if a few others get hurt along the way, does it?"

"You're not being fair!" she whispered, knuckles white against the desk. "You don't know what it's like!"

"Oh, but I do, B'Elanna. I do! I got my best friends _killed_, remember? And then I _lied_ about it, to save my own sorry hide. Chakotay was my friend, too, you know. Sure, we had our differences, but twenty-three years is a long time to know someone."

"You didn't know him like I did!"

"You're right, I didn't. But is that any excuse for you to exile yourself from comfort?"

"That's not what I'm doing!"

"Really? I think it is. You're punishing yourself for his death, and why? Because it makes you feel better?"

"Shut up! Just shut up and leave me alone!" she screamed.

"Fine! It'll give you a taste of your own medicine."

He stormed away, heart breaking, fists clenched because he wanted to take it back. All back.

But he knew if he did, she'd never let herself cry.

He rounded the corner and Harry's eyes met him, round and heavy and so unlike the gaze he'd come to expect from his naïve best friend.

"Not coming?"

Tom laughed emptily. "Definitely not." He raked a hand through his hair. "I think she might hate me forever."

Harry looked at him, brow pinched for an honest moment. And then he pushed mirth into his eyes and said, "Well, my pillows are lumpy, but…my couch is your couch."

Tom bit back a smile even as he buried his face in his hands. Moments like these were what kept him breathing through the pain.

* * *

><p>It was sharp, like the glass that cut her hands in seventh grade, and searing, like the blast of steam and sparks that knocked her unconscious on Dreadnought twenty years ago, and she was suffocating under it in a way so awful that it made her wonder why she'd ever wanted it to return to her.<p>

It hurt. Kahless, it hurt. Worse than assimilation, worse than the isomorphic projection's hand plunging into her chest, worse than giving birth to Miral without Tom at her side.

She couldn't breathe, and it terrified her, because she didn't want to die this way, alone, weak, empty (but full, oh so full of pain), a shell of the person she'd thought she'd become in the past twenty-five years.

She was alone, and she knew it, and it scared her more than the vacuum inside her chest, because nothing scared B'Elanna Torres more than being alone. And it was all her fault, this aloneness, because she'd driven them all away. Her father, when she was five. Her mother, when she was seventeen. Chakotay, when he told her about the Maquis. Miral, when she hadn't gone to the funeral. Janeway, when she hadn't come home for dinner on her birthday. Harry, for the sake of papers that didn't exist. And now Tom, _Tom_, her husband.

And why?

The edge of the desk dug into her flesh as she fought for air, shuddering at the force of the pain, and yet clinging to it because it told her she was still alive and still had a chance at life. A chance to say I'm sorry, a chance to love Tom past the physical once more, a chance to see her daughter grow up, get married, give her grandchildren…

_Letmeliveletmelive_! her mind screamed, the words smashed and jumbled together until they were no longer themselves but something bigger and more desperate than mere words could be.

Please, just let me live. I'll do anything. I'll even cry.

* * *

><p>He crawled into bed that night half-expecting her to kick him out. But she said nothing, so he stayed. Everything was dark and velvety, the time of night she loved the most. He remembered the night she'd told him that—after Miral had fallen asleep in her arms and he'd sat on the bed and just looked at her, loving the way the stars draped silver nets across her hair.<p>

But tonight her fury pushed at him like the south poles of two magnets against each other, and there were no stars to soften her rigid spine. He held himself taut and rolled to the bed's edge to keep from touching her.

* * *

><p>She felt the release of his muscles as clearly as if they were her own, and almost reached to touch him when he rolled towards her. But then she remembered why she'd waited for him to fall asleep, and why she had to do this alone.<p>

_I'm sorry, Tom_ she thought as she slid to the floor. _I'm sorry it took me this long._


	6. Postlude

The night fell like velvet around her, air hanging crisply in her lungs. Patches of fog snagged on her ankles, followed her for a few steps, lost interest and let the next group take over. Her path was clear, though cloaked in shadows, and she found her way easily. She did not walk at her usual clip, but slowly, with her arms folded to her chest and shoulders aching. She felt the throb like an afterthought.

The sky was clear, an unbroken midnight color someplace between blue and black; the lack of stars quieted her. The _bzzibee_ chorus of insects crescendoed, a wild pulse so close to the thrum of her engines that it made her ache for home.

She thought of Harry, and Sam Wildman, and Nicoletti and Anderson and all the others who'd fought, lost sleep, and pined after home, and hoped they were happy. But the thought was not bitter as she'd expected it to be.

Even though it had never been hers, she hoped this place was still their home.

The pavement dropped away to grass; her boots stopped clicking and began a slow _swish-swishing_ through the blades, and she could smell the scent of crushed dew. It wasn't a scent one usually noticed, unless you'd lived on a starship half your life and the only place you saw trees and grass was on the holodeck, or sometimes a planet, but she usually wound up in caves those times. So crushed dew was something she treasured.

Even though she'd never been there before, she found it somehow, and not with any difficulty. It was simple, on the edge farthest from the city. Of that she was glad, because she knew he would've wanted to be close to nature and his heritage, even if he'd struggled to accept it growing up. She stood looking down at it and almost smiled, thinking about much they were alike. And yet how different. He'd always been so calm and gentle. Even when he'd found out about Seska, he hadn't lost it. Just beat himself up for a good three months before she threatened to finish him.

The only time she'd seen him break was when Tom commed them with the news about Seven.

Moonlight streamed onto the gravestone. She stood clutching herself, staring down at those words and numbers—_Chakotay, 2329-2394_—and was angry. So angry she couldn't breathe.

Why? Why had he left her? Why had he given up just when they'd gotten home, just when she'd needed him most? He was her one tie to this life, this quadrant, and he'd died. Why? What had she done? How had she failed him? Wasn't she enough for him?

She was on her knees now, fists pounding the earth as she hurled her rage at the sky, demanding, wanting, needing to know why. The tears streamed off her nose and cheeks, darting between her lips to salt her tongue. Frantic, as if she'd shut them off at any moment.

Broken, bleeding pain all over the crushed-dew grass, she clutched her middle and let the sobs wrack her. Mama, Daddy, Chakotay, Harry, Miral, Tom, Daddy, Daddy—

She wasn't enough for them, would never been enough for them. She was nothing, nothing. Nothing.

"Chakotay, Chakotay I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. Why, why did you leave me? Please just tell me, please come back, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And then he was there, touching her, pressing his cheek into her hair like he always did, cradling her against him and rocking her as she sobbed.

"B'Elanna. B'Elanna," he breathed, and gathered her closer, so close she felt his heart beating against hers. And suddenly she knew he was crying too, hurting just as much as she was, but not because of the body in the grave beneath them. _Oh Tom. Tom._ "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It was all she could manage, but she knew it was enough, because he was still there, still holding her, still whispering her name, and she could feel his heart.

And that was enough to make her let go.

* * *

><p>He held her while she shook, dew soaking into his pajama pants and insects buzzing in the grass around them, and fell in love with her all over again. I'm sorry, she'd said. I'm sorry. He knew how much that took. And he loved her.<p>

Tom eased back on his heels and B'Elanna moved into him, still crying, but more quietly now, and he knew it would be over soon. He looked down at the gravestone, at B'Elanna's hand splayed across it. At the light, glinting off her wedding ring, then up at the moon.

And he knew.

They were going to be okay.

Finis


End file.
